There was an overdue rent notice on my kitchen counter, half a carton of milk in the refrigerator, and a six-year-old daughter who still believed Santa could find us anywhere.

I worked nights cleaning Moretti’s, an upscale Italian restaurant near Boston Harbor. Normally, my neighbor Mrs. Alvarez watched Chloe while I worked.

But Mrs. Alvarez had gone to Connecticut for Christmas.

Every babysitter I called wanted more money than I would earn that night.

So I made the only choice I had.

I brought Chloe with me.

“Are we going to get in trouble?” she asked as we slipped through the employee entrance.

“Only if somebody sees you.”

She hugged her stuffed lion tighter.

“Will Santa see me?”

I smiled despite myself.

“Santa sees everything.”

“That sounds creepy.”

I laughed.

For a few minutes, I almost forgot how bad things were.

The restaurant had closed early for Christmas Eve. The cooks had gone home, the servers had finished cleaning their stations, and by eleven, only Chloe and I remained.

I settled her into a corner booth.

“Try to sleep.”

“I’m hungry.”

The words hit me harder than they should have.

“I know, sweetheart.”

“Can we get pancakes tomorrow?”

“If the store is open.”

“With strawberries?”

“We’ll see.”

She knew what that meant.

Still, she smiled.

I tucked my winter coat around her.

“Close your eyes. Mommy will be finished soon.”

She was asleep before I finished mopping the first section of the dining room.

I was halfway across the floor when the front door opened.

I froze.

Three large men in black coats entered first.

Then James Moretti walked in.

I knew him immediately.

Everyone did.

Officially, Moretti was a businessman. Restaurants. Construction. Nightclubs. Real estate around Boston Harbor.

Unofficially, his name was spoken quietly.

Men who laughed loudly around everyone else became careful when James Moretti walked into a room.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than I made in three months.

His eyes moved across the restaurant.

Then stopped.

Booth Seven.

Chloe.

“Who’s that?”

My mouth went dry.

“My daughter.”

One of his men looked at me.

“Children aren't supposed to be here after closing.”

“I know.”

I dropped the mop handle and quickly stepped forward.

“My babysitter left town. I couldn't find anyone else. I need this shift. Please don't fire me.”

Moretti didn't answer.

Then a sleepy voice came from behind me.

“Mommy?”

Chloe sat up.

My coat slipped from her shoulders.

I hurried over.

“It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

She stared at the four strangers.

Then at me.

“Can we stay here tonight?”

My heart stopped.

“No, honey.”

“But it’s warm here.”

Nobody spoke.

I felt Moretti watching us.

“We're going home when I finish.”

Chloe rubbed her eyes.

“But there’s no food at home anyway.”

“Chloe.”

She looked confused.

“But you said we can't buy groceries until Friday.”

I wanted to disappear.

Moretti’s expression changed.

Not pity.

Something harder to read.

“When did she last eat?”

“She ate today.”

“That wasn't my question.”

I looked at him.

He waited.

“This afternoon.”

“What?”

“Toast.”

His jaw tightened.

Chloe raised one finger.

“With cinnamon.”

Moretti walked toward her.

Every instinct in me screamed to move between them.

But he didn't threaten her.

He simply removed his expensive wool coat and placed it around her shoulders.

Chloe disappeared inside it.

One of the men behind him stared.

“Boss?”

Moretti ignored him.

He crouched until he was eye level with Chloe.

“What do you want for Christmas dinner?”

Chloe considered the question with complete seriousness.

Finally she whispered, “Anything warm.”

Moretti stood.

“Open the kitchen.”

His men exchanged looks.

“The cooks left hours ago,” one said.

Moretti removed his suit jacket.

Then he rolled up his sleeves.

“I didn't ask where the cooks were.”

I stared at him.

“Mr. Moretti, you really don't have to—”

His eyes met mine.

“Tonight, Grace, I do.”

He walked through the kitchen doors.

The man beside me leaned closer.

“I've worked for James fourteen years.”

He looked toward the kitchen.

“I've never seen him cook for anybody.”

Then something crashed.

Moretti shouted.

And all three men reached inside their jackets.